


A Mother Knows

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Mummy Holmes, But John Doesn't Love Sherlock, Episode: s03e01: The Empty Hearse, F/M, Good Mother-Son Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Injuries, Mentions of the Haitus, Mummy Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mummy Holmes has hidden depths, Parenting the Holmes Brothers must have been an extraordinary challenge, Post-Bonfire Scene, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's parents - Freeform, Spoilers for Sherlock S03E01, Takes Place During TEH, Thank goodness Mummy Holmes is an extraordinary woman, The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from The Empty Hearse, taking place after the Bonfire scene. She cleans and bandages Sherlock’s burns and blisters, but there’s really nothing she can do about his broken heart, how much ever she wants to. A mother always knows, but some things require divine intervention. Mrs. Holmes is many things, but a deity she is not.  </p><p>TL;DR: Parenting the Holmes Brothers must have been an extraordinary challenge. Thank goodness Mummy Holmes is an extraordinary woman, and much more than she appears to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mother Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this instead of working on my dissertation. Am clearly going to hell. I have a soft spot in my heart for mother-son relationships. This is my version of Mrs. Holmes, and is based on inferences from the previous seasons of Sherlock BBC, which tell us time and time again that the Holmes household was far from normal. Sometimes I take that to be a bad thing. This time, I’ve taken it to be a good thing. I didn’t have time to get the actual transcript of the episode, so I’m going off my memory. This is unbeta’d. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable and am making no credit from this. Although Sherlock Holmes and his ensemble characters are in the public domain, this particular incarnation belongs to the BBC, and all references made to everything in the episode are respectfully credited to them.

Sherlock sat patiently as his mother cleaned his burned fingers and wrapped them in clean bandages. He’d gone into that fire without any real regard for his own safety, because John had been underneath it. There was no question that he’d do it again, just as quickly. But his can-do attitude didn’t change the fact that fire was hot, and that leather gloves did not good protection provide.

It had taken almost forty-five minutes for her to peel off what was left of the mangled leather, off what was left of his mangled skin. He hadn’t gone for medical help because there had been more important things at stake. John’s life, for one. He’d seen Mary and John off in an ambulance, and he’d given his statement to the bumbling police officer who’d finally turned up. And then he’d gone home, and he’d never been gladder to see his mother in his life.

“Are you okay?” she asked, putting on the finishing touches on the burn dressing.

“You’ve done a marvellous job, mother,” he replied, knowing that it wasn’t what she had asked.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it Sherlock.” His mother was quite possibly the only person on the planet who really knew him. It was both a blessing, and a cross to bear. She’d always been faster than him, _and_ Mycroft, and if that wasn’t scary he didn’t know what was. Age had not diminished her ability to brow-beat her wayward sons into doing exactly what she wanted them to. She’d worked in some secret service agency when she was younger, and he still hadn’t been able to figure out what she did. Father was, by comparison, much more normal, in that he’d served in the army and he’d provided some valuable information when it had been sorely needed. And then he’d asked her out. In front of all her subordinates and colleagues.

If his Uncle Quentin could be believed (unlikely), they’d considered handing him a gun and telling him to kill himself, because it would be less painful than what she was going to dole out. To all of their surprise, she’d accepted. And then three years later, to the date, they’d been married. And his father had taken care of them and their mother had run the country, and every night she’d come home and teach them to think, and to reason, and to deduce and _use their minds_.

He was who he was, mostly because of his mother. She never hesitated to call him out on his nonsense. And he was thankful for that, because in late years there had been few people who would be honest to him, that he also liked. John being one of them.

“He’s getting married,” Sherlock said, an apparent non-sequitur. But his mother, bless her heart, knew exactly what he meant.

“I heard, my darling boy. I would have wanted anything but one-sided love for you.”

“I don’t love him,” Sherlock said, and it was a knee-jerk reaction, the lack of focus saying more about the truth of the statement than anything else. His mother fixed a look on him, and it spoke a thousand words about what she thought about that.

Sherlock sighed, tracing long fingers along the lines of the bandages. “What about that nonsense about how it’s better to have loved and lost—”

“Don’t be foolish, Sherlock. It’s exactly that; nonsense. I wouldn’t wish that pain on you for the world.”

There’s another long moment of silence, and it’s not discomforting for either of them, because they’d both very comfortable in their heads, and with each other. Sherlock had always understood Mummy better than Mycroft; a major triumph in their lives, even though Sherlock had understood everyone else _less_ than Mycroft. After all, what was the value of ‘everyone else’ compared to Mummy?

“I don’t want to feel this way, Mummy,” he confessed, and while people (bloody Mycroft) had probably known this already, it was the first time he’d said it aloud, and it felt like simultaneously a relief, and like he’d exposed a vulnerability. But Mummy would never hurt him.

“I know, my darling boy,” she said, and pulled him into a hug. She was the only one allowed. The only one, ever. He recognized her perfume. It smelled like home. Her coat felt like his own, her lapels coarse and familiar against his cheekbones, and it was the only reason he’d gone to fifty different stores looking for a male version of the coat she loved to wear. Mycroft had called her a Mummy’s boy, but he hadn’t seen anything to be ashamed of. He was his mothers’ son. It was a matter of pride, thank you.

“What do I do?” He asked, and it was a monumental thing, because it had been years since he’d asked for help. It was different when Mycroft insisted on helping, and John bullied him into doing things for his own good. But he asked anyway.

She sighed deeply and ran her fingers through his riotous curls. Running and panicking and the bloody bicycle helmet hadn’t helped, but genetics were what they would be. He had his father’s hair. He supposed she had a lot of experience with it. And that thought was a little ugly, but he wondered. Because he knew, like he knew his own mind, that his mother was the genius of the two, the loud and the confident and the outspoken; the one who forged forwards.

His father was quieter, and intelligent but not a genius, and solid, stable. He had her back. He brought up the rear. Like a well organised, efficient system. Mycroft and Sherlock had been in between them, for as long as they had stayed there without wandering off. They still continued, even though it had been almost a decade since he’d lived in his mothers’ house. Hand in hand, covering each others’ backs.

He wondered if he could ever be like that with John.

 _It is not your place_ , his brother’s voice whispered, and his breath hitched, ever so-slightly. If she had been any other woman, she’d not have noticed it. But she was his mother. Madam Holmes, feared and respected by _everyone_. She pulled his face away from the comfort of her body and the fact that she was looking at him and no-doubt reading him like she would an open book was too much, and it was too much to handle with the voice in his head telling him that he just wasn’t _enough_.

Against his will, out of his control, tears started slipping from his eyes and he was mortified, because no, it wasn’t allowed to affect him so much. It wasn’t _allowed_. But clearly that had no relevance to what his body was doing regardless, and the flood of emotions inside him was overwhelming.

He had never felt like this before, in his life, and the tears were pushing past his face, his face burning with shame and his vision blurring shamefully, and he wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go, and it was his mother. She was the only one around whom he could let his guard down. She sighed softly, and pulled him back to her, and let him cry.

He was a thirty seven year-old man and he’d killed more people in the past two years than he actually knew in his entire life. He was an adult, and he had his own consulting business and he was respected and adored in equal measure across the country (because people generally didn’t get past the cheekbones to find the bastard beneath), and he was crying into his mother’s blouse because there was nothing else he could do.

“Oh my baby boy, I’m so sorry,” she said, and it really wasn’t like there was anything else she could say either.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly, into the damp patch in her blouse. She continued stroking his hair, nose pressed into his head.

“I know you did, baby. No one ever does.”

They sat there in silence, for another ten minutes, just contemplating. They had never been close in the conventional sense. Sherlock didn’t call, he didn’t text, or email, and he hated coming home for Christmas, because he didn’t like being polite to people and he could hardly have been anything else at his mother’s table. But his mother knew him inside out, and neither of them had ever pretended otherwise. Neither of them would ever speak about this, not even to his father or Mycroft, and that went without saying.

“What would you do?”

“If I were you, my darling boy, I would carry on as if nothing has changed. I know you want me to tell you that you should tell him the truth, but we are both logical. And logic and reason will never fail you, Sherlock, remember what I’ve always said. Love is all well and good, but it only helps when it is mutual. Carry on. Be his friend. Love him from afar. She will know. There will be no way around it. The woman he’s marrying will know. But you cannot fight her for John. Because he loves her in a different way than he loves you, and if she leaves, he will blame you. Don’t do that to yourself my darling, because that will only be more painful.”

Sherlock nodded, still breathing oddly, crying silently.

“I want to hate her.”

“I know that too, baby. It would be easy. But you’re a good man. Your heart is strong. And you love John. You want him to be happy. If she makes him happy, you can’t hate her. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean that you don’t love him. You can survive this, my darling.”

“It’s more painful than—” he mumbled something, deliberately muffled into the thick fabric of her coat. She sighed again. She hated not being able to help him.

“It’s more painful than surviving the past two years alone, because now you’re back and the person you came back for is not there anymore.”

It’s a sign of how well they understand each other that he doesn’t even object to the suggestion that he’d only gone hunting for Moriarty’s net to keep John safe. It is, after all, the truth.

“There’s nothing else to say darling.”

He nodded, and then backed away, before leaning in to kiss his mother’s cheek, eyes still red-rimmed and blood-shot. The very picture of a man unaccustomed to showing his emotions, let alone crying. He started scrubbing away the tears drying on his cheeks and she stopped him, wiping them away with her aged fingertips. She hadn’t been able to give him much, but at least she could give him this.

“I love you, Sherlock. Know that you always have sanctuary, should you need it.”

He knew exactly what she meant, so she didn’t need to say anything more. If he needed out of London, she would be able to give him that. For now, he was going to face his fears, back in London.

He nodded, and it was clearly an effort for him to not lean back into her and just pass out. He looked exhausted and emotionally drained. Looking closer at him it was clear that the past two years on the run had taken it out of him, and she heartily wished that he hadn’t had to face this on his homecoming. She made a note to have a little talk with Mycroft, who really should have known better.

She patted his injured hands, and knew that if she hadn’t been around, if none of this had happened, it would be John Watson who patched her son up, after he’d been hurt. She wanted to like John, really, she did. It took a strong one to stand up to both Sherlock and Mycroft. But she was able to read Sherlock’s pain in his cut lip and his burned hands, but John had not been able to read Sherlock’s love, and exhaustion in the line of his shoulders and his crows’ feet. For that, she resented him.

In the Holmes family they had mostly gotten by because nothing much needed to be said that could not have been deduced. Sherlock, and she admitted that she’d made a mistake there, hadn’t realised that it wasn’t the norm, to be so observant as to not need conversation or other social skills. She wished he’d told John, years ago, that he loved him; that he _adored_ him. Because he had. But he’d hoped that John would notice, and every one night stand and meaningless date had cut a little deeper into her younger son’s heart.

It was a good thing she hadn’t met this allegedly good man. Sherlock probably read her sentiment on her face, and she didn’t mind. The boy needed to know that there was someone in his corner, without question. At this point in time, she didn’t think he had anyone. She was a good person to have, anyway.

The next day brought them playing tourist, because Mycroft was proving belligerent and she’d wanted to watch this play just to see what her sister-in-law had been on about, weeks after seeing it. It was a fortuitous aligning of events. She’d laid out her husband’s clothes on the bed, and it made her smile how he hardly even questioned her anymore, how he never had, because he trusted her without question.

She wanted that for her son. She didn’t want anything that fell short of what her son deserved. Her _sons_. Both of them, the idiots.

They were in the living room, listening to Sherlock plot, when they heard the door open downstairs, and the way Sherlock paused spoke very loudly about his recognition of who had just entered the flat. Sherlock was turning like the needle of a compass would, inexorably north, to face John, at the door. Coming up the stairs.

She picked up a steady prattle of noise, speaking about his father losing things behind the sofa and wearing his glasses on a chain, even though James had never lost a thing in his life. Military habits held fast, after all. She mentioned the Parliamentary debate, and put up with a solitary eye-roll from her husband before he played along, not even knowing what role he was playing, and it was worth it to see Sherlock’s lips twitch in a pale imitation of a smile.

He crossed the room and abused some furniture, just to show her that he was okay. She smiled, because her baby boy had always been an idiot.

John Watson burst in, and then hesitated, having seen them, and offered to leave, if he had clients. He was a good looking man, and definitely a little banged up. She took great pleasure in playing the role of a disgruntled lady being unceremoniously shoved out of the room by her only son. She and Sherlock had always loved playing these little games. Mycroft had never been so easily amused, far too easily offended, and far too proper to have such simple fun.

But she was his mother, and there were games and there was seriousness. She put her foot in the open door before Sherlock slammed it shut. She always wore solid boots when visiting Sherlock; he had an unfortunate tendency to leave caustic and sharp things lying around. Her husband spoke up for the first time, and she smiled. He had her back.

“Keep in touch, Sherlock. Promise?” she asked, stroking his cheek before he turned to nervously check on the man he loved, who did not love him back. He tried to shove the door again, but her boots held fast. She brushed her finger across his dramatic lower lip (he had her husband’s stunning looks, but her eyes, and she _loved_ him so much). “Promise me, Sherlock. I worry.”

He flickered a slight smile. “Promise.” In Sherlock-speak, that was as good enough as a casual ‘love you’. It was good enough. And she’d gained her monthly dose of amusement just watching him be nervous about John, once again in 221B. She let him close the door and held her husband there by the scruff of his neck, before he could descend the stairs.

“So… Clients?” John asked. He sounded nice, through the thin door. She wished Sherlock would let her meet him. She knew, as well as he did, that she wouldn’t be nice to this man, because it was her prerogative. But she understood. John had been hurt back then, because he’d loved Sherlock too. And if Sherlock had only said— The time for confessions was past, though.

“No. Just my parents,” Sherlock responded, knowing that they’d be listening outside.

There was an incredulous pause and she had to bite in a giggle. “ _Those_ , were your parents?” came the incredulous response. Sherlock sighed, leaning against the door and she smiled as her husband rolled his eyes again. He was so quiet, but he had his very own brand of humour, and she loved it.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, and she knew why he was confused. She also knew why John was excited, because both Sherlock and Mycroft tended to give the impression that they’d been created in labs, or else that they’d sprung from the earth, full-formed. Or that they were aliens. She rarely got to take credit for her sons, but she understood why John crossed the room to peek through the curtains.

“Those were _your_ parents?”

“Why?”

“There were so…” she wanted to know what John said, because it would give a good indicator of what he thought of her son. “So ordinary.” Because he thought Sherlock was extra-ordinary, she finished the incomplete thought, and smiled.

They could leave, but just as she turned to climb down the stairs, she heard Sherlock’s voice projected, no doubt for her benefit. “That’s a cross I must bear.” She laughed. She knew exactly what he meant.

But maybe, just maybe, all hope was not lost. After all, John thought Sherlock was extra-ordinary. She, on the other hand, wanted to visit Martha. It had been years. Martha had been an excellent operative in the seventies, with a voice like a siren and a face like a movie star. She’d been a good friend. Maybe she could ask her to watch out for her son in matters of the heart, too.

She’d told him what she thought was the best course of action. But she was his mother, and she knew about love and about risks and about potential. Maybe Martha knew a little more than Sherlock thought she did. 


End file.
